Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine. Nyah nyah. No money made from this (and for that, my wallet thanks you. Can you feel the *love*? LoL). Oh you know I love 'em all.

Summary: Jeng je jeng… more snippets from stories untold. Picture a world, rather like a punk version of 1940s. The New Look and glitter eyeshadow under the strobe lights. Think Raymond Chandler and all those detective stories. Picture a hard-boiled private eye. Picture a club with a blonde siren on stage. Picture smoke. And patent leather on a flint-eyed angelslut.

Author's notes: This is my second Apocrypha story, and this time it is a full-fledged AU. Title is from a poem (in italics throughout) that my best friend wrote. A better poet than I, though that doesn't mean much, because hey, I suck. But I thank you, to all who've liked my writings so far. Hope you like this one. And hope she doesn't mind that I slashed her poor poem.

Now, I'm trying to evoke the feel of them private-eye novels, but hey, the only noir stuff I encounter regularly is the regular skit on Whose Line Is It Anyway? And I borrow rather than buy, and my friends aren't exactly voracious readers of that genre. So, if I fall flat on my face, break it to me gently, ok? And somehow it all came out second person perspective, so hope it all works out.

Additional warning: if you haven't read the first Apocrypha fic, no worries. But I must stress, they're stories with no beginning, middle or end. It does exist, vaguely, in my head. But I refuse to write it, and so I write the snippets that inspired me in the first place.

Apocrypha: Molotov

By katryne

There is a place on Peach Street, dimly illuminated by the grimy streetlights and nothing else. It is on the bad part of town, misplaced hopes on its name for a section meant for dirty industrial work. Not exactly where you would picture a nightclub would be, but it makes sense for a place that sells cheap escapism in neat dark bottles that squeezes your brain tight come morning would exist in a location where grey factories abound. A location where dreams are taken apart everyday on the conveyor belt to be repackaged into stale little boxes of detergent or anything else worth mass-producing.

So, you take the third corner to the left and down the stairs and you will see the broken neon sign above the entrance, missing the 'i' and the apostrophe, but it is still 'Cid's' all the same. You step in and cough away the smoke than you inhale anyway every time you take out a stick from the carton jammed into your pockets and you see the grey faces of the workers buying back their dreams with dirty dollar notes.

Dimly, you notice the multi-coloured hue the smoke is taking, thanks to the crazily swinging ball above you. You try not to concentrate on it as your head begins to pound. The bartender looks at you and gives a little salute; he knows what you like best. You don't know whether that comforts you or annoys you, that you've spent too much time in this sorry joint.

You scan the place, and pulls out the paper out of your pants pocket. It was last month's rent notice; wrong paper, so you curse under your breath and starts emptying your pockets one by one. Where the hell is it, you wonder, as you looked through your clothes for the third time. You sigh grumpily as you take a long lazy swig at the bottle. Never mind. You still remember the brief note anyway.

But you need to reassure yourself as you stare at the clock and realise your informant is late. Maybe he doesn't know how to tell time, you tell yourself cynically as you remember the too-careful print of someone who learnt their letters too long ago and never practised it because they left school too early.

You snap your finger at the bartender; the second bottle comes whizzing a split second later. Idly you contemplate the hot-looking blonde on stage, gyrating her hips and making love to the microphone with her voice. Pretty classy broad with pretty classy ambitions, she's just biding her time, as she told you months ago, when you were new in town and looked as if you mattered. She knew better now, and you're good friends, and besides you got a few memorable nights together, and sometimes, that's all that matters.

You're nearly finishing your third bottle and well on your way to getting drunk when a light tap on your shoulder snaps you out of intoxicated musings. You turn. Well, here's a pretty sight. All kohled-up grey eyes, huge on a pale pale face, fringed with dusty eyelashes and pretty pink lips, wet with glitter and smirking with jaded amusement.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, and as you peruse his leather-clad body, you think, god, even his voice is an invitation to sex. And you see his dilated pupils and know that this lovely boy with the untidy hair is higher than the heavens tonight. And he sidles up to you, his thigh obscenely splayed across yours and you think vaguely maybe it isn't so bad as he rubs himself against you and gave a little contented mewl.

"I've seen you before." Points for stating the obvious, but a hot body is squirming against you and the fact your brain isn't fizzed out in some pool of primal lust should be lauded.

"I work the Main Street," came that husky voice, wafting to your ears. "And I've seen you. Such a gentleman. Never paying any mind to the likes of us. Afraid?"

"I'd prefer my lays to be aware, awake, coherent and not looking forward to my wallet at the end of the night."

"But I am all three. And tonight's for free."

A part of you that is still not consumed by this heathen sprite heard the strains of a new song coming from the band on stage. Slow and lazy, just like his touches, just like Quistis' molasses voice now flowing across the room and stroking your back in a sensual caress just like his touches.

… Yeah, I'm on fire…

… Got molotov cocktail in my blood … Got a match? Light me up cos - … I'm ready to crash and burn tonight …

He met your questioning stare with a shrug. "I was nervous. I took a joint."

"So what do you know?"

"Buy me a drink?" he wheedles you sweetly.

You buy him a drink and neglect to mention there's a perfectly good empty barstool behind him. He's far too good with what he’s doing, drugged up or not. You try not to stare at the clean silhouette of his neck as he downed half the bottle with a smooth swallow.

Before you know it, the contents of the bottle was drunk dry. Before you know it, he drags you to the crowded dance floor. Before you know it, he brings you to the most deserted part of the club and latches against you eagerly as he whispers against your ear.

"He's dangerous."

But at this moment, nothing can be more dangerous than that dilated smudged grey eyes looking straight at you as he presses his crotch closer to yours. Or so you think.

… Yeah, like champagne - I'm sparkling.

… Take a sip, yeah, do you feel me burning … Down and inside of you.

But back to work. "What do you know?"

"Enough to want him taken out." And he looks over your shoulder and you spy the subject of your investigation have sent his thugs to do a little observation. You're absurdly glad you're out of your every day wear, though you miss the trenchcoat at least you're not easily recognisable now. You're absurdly glad too that the eye-stinging smoke is such a part of this seedy club. And your brows must be frowning in concentration that he must have decided on some distraction before you attract the thugs' attention.

He kisses you.

Quistis sings.

… Yeah, drink up - burn with me tonight …

There's the bitter wash of alcohol and smoke lurking within the hidden corners of his mouth as your surprise quickly turns to lust and you hold him tighter and mapping his inner contours much much closer than you should.

Do all their kind taste as sweet, you wonder dazedly as he whole-heartedly returned the kiss.

He moans.

You forget your actual reason for being here.

You thought no kissing when turning tricks, and he must be a mind reader because that thought of yours was plucked out of the air and he murmurs into your heavily gasping mouth, “I did say tonight’s free.”

You can barely see his eyes hidden behind the lowered lashes, but when you do, they’re temporarily clear of lust. “I can get you in. I’m his favourite,” he says, with no small amount of irony.

Favourite. Right. Concentrate.

Easier said than done, yes?

And the closeness and the drugs must be affecting himself as badly because now there is an armful of warm naughty coyness looking up at you slyly.

… Yeah, I'm ravin', cravin' …

… For some action with you …

“Why are you so eager?”

“You’re cuter,” is the flippant reply, and as much as you’re reluctantly impressed that he didn’t wish to impress you with his earnestness and the inevitable dramatic reason, you sense there’s much behind that reply, but you don’t want to push it. Tonight’s not the night.

Then what’s tonight for, you wonder?

Maybe the answer is as obvious as that surprisingly strong arm that is latching onto you.

… Make me explode white hot spasms…

Such promise. But all true?

Then his hand creeps underneath your shirt, and you decide it doesn’t matter.

A soft whisper, “They’re coming over here.” Ah shit. Thugs always do know when to spoil a good night.

You grab hold of the willing hand. “Hope you liked being chased by goons with guns.”

“Mmmm,” he sidles up from behind. “I practise every night, with your friends from the precinct.”

An awkward angle, but a fucking incredible kiss is a fucking incredible kiss is a fucking incredible kiss.

… And I'll burn, I'll blow your mind tonight…

And you think, as you crept through the back exit, painfully aware of the only heat beside you in this chilly night, that it’s just like you, Seifer Almasy, to fall in love with a whore.



A/N: by the end of it, it kinda lost momentum. So hontou-ni gomen nasai, minna. :)

And if anyone’s still interested in my WIP (work in progress) titled The Bunny that Won’t Die (aka Insert Melodramatic Title Here), it’s still (surprise) in progress. I’ve resolved that I’ll not be uploading any new chapters until I’ve finished at least three in advance. Hey, I need a little discipline here. *snort* AND I am having trouble login into ff.net, so er… sorry?

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